The Rhyme of Captain Gale
The Rhyme of Captain Gale
A. Pembury
A. Pembury
A. Pembury
A. Pembury
Oh, Captain Gale who sails the sea,When waves are high and winds are free,Will kiss his hand, to make it plainHow much he scorns the hurricane;A most imprudent thing to doWhile sailing on the ocean blue.He walks his deck, I’ve heard it said,When wiser sailors lie in bed,And far upon the lonely foam,He takes his food as if at home(Including plates of greasy stew);A thing that I could never do.His ship may toss, his ship may pitch,He doesn’t mind a morsel which;And never seems to care a bitHow deep the sea is under it—Though this, to me, beyond a doubt,Is something he should care about.But sailors always were, to me,A singular community.
Oh, Captain Gale who sails the sea,When waves are high and winds are free,Will kiss his hand, to make it plainHow much he scorns the hurricane;A most imprudent thing to doWhile sailing on the ocean blue.He walks his deck, I’ve heard it said,When wiser sailors lie in bed,And far upon the lonely foam,He takes his food as if at home(Including plates of greasy stew);A thing that I could never do.His ship may toss, his ship may pitch,He doesn’t mind a morsel which;And never seems to care a bitHow deep the sea is under it—Though this, to me, beyond a doubt,Is something he should care about.But sailors always were, to me,A singular community.
Oh, Captain Gale who sails the sea,When waves are high and winds are free,Will kiss his hand, to make it plainHow much he scorns the hurricane;A most imprudent thing to doWhile sailing on the ocean blue.
Oh, Captain Gale who sails the sea,
When waves are high and winds are free,
Will kiss his hand, to make it plain
How much he scorns the hurricane;
A most imprudent thing to do
While sailing on the ocean blue.
He walks his deck, I’ve heard it said,When wiser sailors lie in bed,And far upon the lonely foam,He takes his food as if at home(Including plates of greasy stew);A thing that I could never do.
He walks his deck, I’ve heard it said,
When wiser sailors lie in bed,
And far upon the lonely foam,
He takes his food as if at home
(Including plates of greasy stew);
A thing that I could never do.
His ship may toss, his ship may pitch,He doesn’t mind a morsel which;And never seems to care a bitHow deep the sea is under it—Though this, to me, beyond a doubt,Is something he should care about.But sailors always were, to me,A singular community.
His ship may toss, his ship may pitch,
He doesn’t mind a morsel which;
And never seems to care a bit
How deep the sea is under it—
Though this, to me, beyond a doubt,
Is something he should care about.
But sailors always were, to me,
A singular community.